


I Wish Our Past Could Be Our Future

by MycroftexMachina



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 03:02:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11072709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MycroftexMachina/pseuds/MycroftexMachina
Summary: They were supposed to be friends forever.





	I Wish Our Past Could Be Our Future

**I.**

Dylan should have known better. It’s not like the past two years have been particularly thrilling in terms of his _professional_ life—what with being sent back to the OHL not once but twice, losing World Juniors to the fucking Americans and feeling like he is the only one left behind from 2015—not true, but it’s the thought that counts. Still, he let himself believe the Otters could actually win the Memorial Cup. That _he_ could win the Memorial Cup, like Marns had done the previous year.

 

His mistake. But then, he is making a lot of them, these days, as he has become fond of saying to everyone and their mothers. According to his brothers, Dylan has become a prematurely old grump who complains too much and who needs to get laid. A lot.

 

Since Dylan knows for a fact that the getting laid part is not an issue—it looks like even a bad dye job and awful facial hair aren’t a deterrent—Ryan and Matt must be wrong.

 

Brinksy is of the opinion that Dylan simply needs to get a grip and finally get over it—not so much the cup, since that is still too recent, and Brinksy too is moping around like a puppy without a toy, just everything else—but Dylan is having a really hard time dealing with the mounting disappointments.

 

It’s making him more of a jerk than usual, because things are kind of a mess. Of late, he has been rude to friends, fans and old people alike, something he is appalled about. Unfortunately, some days are just hard, and he snaps at the drop of a hat. He is a horrible human who may actually deserve what’s happening to him.

 

So Dylan bitches about everything, mostly to Brinksy, who has lost patience sometimes back in April.

 

“Right,” he had said, “because your life is so fucking hard, Mr. Third Overall and Arizona Coyotes Prospect.”

 

To be fair, Brinksy had been supportive up to that point and more than understanding about the mess that Dylan’s _personal_ life had become, although he had accused Dylan to be a bit of a drama queen. So Dylan gets it the Brinksy is fed up with him and his soap opera life.

 

And Dylan knows he is lucky, very lucky indeed. Luckier than so many people, so many of his teammates, past and present, who will never go as far as he already has with his hockey. He should be ashamed of himself, but Dylan never claimed to be a good guy. He lets that title to other persons, seemingly more suited to carry the weight of Canadian hockey on their shoulders.

 

He is not bitter—here Brinksy would disagree—but Dylan is truly not really bitter.

 

It’s just … hard. Doing so well and losing routinely, getting second place consistently, as if the whole thing was a cosmic message saying, “Sure Stromer, you are good. Just not good enough.” That kind of stuff can get pretty old, pretty quickly. Since Dylan has had two years to get the message, he should be forgiven if he has become progressively pissier about it.

 

There is only so much wallowing in self-pity he has been allowed to do, unfortunately. The last time he had felt like giving up the ghost, Brinksy had forced him to sit down and write out a list of the things for which Dylan “better be fucking thankful, you dickwad!”

 

Dylan had obliged, because Alex is tiny, but he is fierce. He is also the best friend a guy could ask for, and Dylan had felt really bad about driving him insane.

 

The list is safely tucked in his wallet, and Dylan is supposed to pull it out whenever he starts feeling sorry for himself, which, these days, is way too often. He had thought that, by now, he would have left all this adolescent angst behind. Brinksy had pointed out that twenty is not far enough from nineteen to count.

 

Dylan disagrees.

 

The list is long, and it is labeled “Brinksy’s List”—because Dylan is an ass. Dylan did not write it in any specific order, since Brinksy hadn’t said that was necessary. It reads, complete with Dylan’s explanatory notes and Brinksy’s commentary—because if Dylan is an ass, Brinksy is a dick—as follows:

 

  * Mom and Dad
  * Hockey (“Only second Stromer? I am surprised.”)
  * Ryan and Matt (if one must)
  * Hockey
  * Otters (“You bet your ass, Stromer!”)
  * Brinksy (“I should have been higher, you fucker!”)
  * Going third overall and beating Ryan
  * Going third overall and beating Marns
  * Going third overall and beating Matt even if Matt hasn't been drafted yet
  * Street Hockey
  * Marns (“At least you put him after me, Stromer. Much appreciated.”)
  * The Raddyshes (“Go Salads!”)
  * Hockey (“I think we got it the first two times.”)
  * Being Canadian (“Fuck off, Stromer. You guys suck.”)
  * Anti-Acne products (because Dylan is vain)
  * Girls (because Dylan is also a dick and if his mom knows about this she will kill him)
  * Chocolate (doesn't help with acne, but a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do)
  * Hockey season
  * Alcohol (“We need to get trashed soon, Stromer.”)
  * Teammates
  * Family
  * Friends
  * Pool parties
  * Eichs (on good days)
  * The McLeods (on any day, except game day)
  * Hanny (on good _hair_ days; “Afraid of the competition, Stromer? My hair is much better than either of you anyway.”)
  * Good health (“You may want to move this up higher just in case.”)
  * Money in the bank
  * Silver Medal at WJ (better than nothing)
  * Lollipops (he is a hockey player, it’s not like his teeth are going to survive for long anyway)
  * Free porn (Dylan can afford to pay for porn, but he is also cheap, besides being vain and a dick)
  * Strawberry bubblegum
  * Gelato (not Ice cream. Gelato. Let’s not kid ourselves with stupid North American ice cream. Dylan is a connoisseur)
  * Nutella (“Jesus, Stromer, that’s disgusting!”)
  * Beer (yes, it is alcohol. Dylan is also redundant)
  * Rum
  * Tequila
  * Painkillers (the two are connected, what are you looking at?)



 

Dylan had stopped after painkillers, because he had felt a headache coming, so he had gotten up to eat something. He had also thought the list was as comprehensive as possible—there, he gets to use a word as comprehensive in a sentence; the marvels of American high-school education.

 

He had hoped he could add the Memorial Cup to “Brinksy’s List,” but that was clearly another thing Dylan was not going to be able to be thankful for.

 

It had taken Dylan a couple of hours to write the list, which is quite remarkable, since he is sufficiently self-aware to know he is not the sharpest tool in the shed, nor is he particularly thoughtful. Still, he had done it, and when he had shown it to Brinksy, Brinksy had looked like a proud papa bear. Still, in order to prevent any misunderstanding, Dylan’s glare had challenged him not to make stupid comments about what was _not_ on the list.

 

Brinksy had kept his mouth shut, added his comments, some stupid hearts and flowers and called it a day.

 

Dylan has another list for what is _not_ on the list. It’s not a list of things he is not grateful for. It’s … a list of things that are causing him anxiety and sadness, rather than making him happy like they used to do, which is presumably the whole purpose of the fucking list Brinksy had him write—Brinksy should consider a career in counseling if this hockey thing doesn't work out.

 

Since these things are not currently making him happy, Dylan figures it is fine they are not on “Brinksy’s List.” They would defeat its purpose, after all.

 

It’s not a long list. Actually, it’s a very short one, and Dylan wrote it the same day he wrote Brinksy’s and then put it in his wallet too, because he is a fucking moron. He hasn't shown it to Brinksy, because Brinksy would deck him and then hug him—even if he is tired of Dylan’s antics. And Brinksy knows anyway, so there is no need.

 

The second list reads, without comments, explanations or little hearts:

 

 _Connor_ _McDavid_

 

**II.**

 

The thing is, Dylan had thought they’d be best friends forever. It’s juvenile, and Ryan had warned him that junior hockey friendships had a shorter lifespan than gnats—apparently Ryan is a budding entomologist when he doesn't play hockey for the New York Islanders.

 

Their mom had agreed, and she had added that people rarely keep in touch with their high school friends, especially if they move away. “High school reunions only get you so far, honey,” she had said.

 

But Dylan had not believed them, because it was Dylan and Davo. And Davo had promised.

 

Davo had promised not long after they had met, when their combined potential had made it obvious they would go far.

 

Davo had promised over textbooks, while Dylan tried to understand the intricacies of Emily Bronte’s poetry and Davo was working on stats.

 

Davo had promised during practices, when Coach made them run suicides because they had sucked over the weekend, and they should and could do better.

 

Davo had promised at night, on busses that took them back and forth Erie, after exhilarating wins and soul-crashing losses.

 

Davo had promised, and promised, and promised that they would be friends, best friends, forever. With his stupid smile, in his stupid face covered with acne, well before he had stopped looking like a horse and was still a gangly, awkward kid who didn't know where to put his limbs except when he was on the ice, Davo had promised.

 

And Dylan had fucking believed him, because they were hockey _soulmates_ and because each promise was accompanied by an “I love you, Stromer.”

 

Dylan doesn't have a romantic bone in his body—or so his exes tell him, it’s not like he would know, necessarily. He certainly likes to fuck more than he likes to romance. The point is, Dylan is not romantic, but he had believed his friendship with Connor would last forever, because he has never worked as hard at a relationship as he had worked on his relationship with Connor. He had put in the time, the energy and the feelings.

 

And he had promised, too, especially after the draft, during that long, hot summer when it became clear that the time they could spend together in the pool, at parties, playing video games or street hockey was running out inexorably.

 

Dylan had promised even if he knew he’d probably be sent back to Erie, while Connor was sure to make it to the big show.

 

Dylan had promised when that had happened and he had been alone with _their_ Otters, and Connor had been playing with his merry collection of first overall picks who couldn't help Edmonton find the back of a net.

 

Dylan had promised when Connor had returned to the GTA after his injury and Dylan had gone to visit him whenever he had been able to.

 

Dylan had promised during late-night phone calls, when Connor had cried in Dylan’s ear because everyone believed it was appropriate to put the expectations of an entire hockey franchise on the shoulders of a nineteen-year old injured kid. Connor had cried, and cried, and cried. And Dylan had promised they would be friends forever.

 

Dylan had promised during afternoon discussions about how much the Coyotes sucked, and they might as well have kept Dylan up—Connor had been nothing if not loyal, then.

 

Dylan had promised last summer, after Marns had won the Memorial Cup and Connor hadn’t made it the playoffs, although he was healthy, and back home.

 

And every time Dylan had promised, he had said, “I love you, Davo.”

 

Come to think of it, however, Dylan had started promising when Connor had stopped and, as it turns out, everybody else had been right, and the joke was on Dylan, because forever had lasted less than two years.

 

Dylan hasn't talked to Connor McDavid since shortly after the All Star Game. He had called him to congratulate him on a job well done, but Davo had been on his way out for dinner with some of his teammates, and he had told Dylan he would call later.

 

Later had never come.

 

Dylan had texted him to see what was up, snapchatted a few idiotic things that he knew would make Connor laugh, liked some stuff on Instagram. The usual. This was what they did, what they had done before and after the draft.

 

Davo, however, hadn't respond to texts or snaps, hadn’t acknowledged Dylan on other social media, and hadn’t called Dylan back, even when Dylan had decided to pick up the phone and call him himself.

 

Dylan had spent the two ensuing months agonizing about what had gone wrong and when, all while trying to ensure the Otters were positioned to make a run for the Memorial Cup. He had also bitched about the whole thing to Brinksy, who had seemed surprised about Connor’s silence, but had decided not to intervene. To be fair, Dylan had forbidden it.

 

“We are not in high school anymore. This is fucking stupid,” Dylan had said.

 

Brinksy had looked at him and said, “Well, then, behave like a fucking adult and call him again.”

 

“I already tried.”

 

“He is the captain of an NHL team with a lot of responsibilities.”

 

“He could still text.”

 

“He is the captain of an NHL team with a lot of responsibilities.”

 

“Are you telling me you haven’t heard from him, Alex?” Dylan had asked, hoping … he didn't know what.

 

“Dyls …”

 

“Not enough responsibilities not to get in touch with _some_ of his friends, then,” Dylan had commented, trying to swallow the sudden lump in his throat.

 

Dylan doesn't even know what the fuck happened. One day they were fine, and the next Connor had better things to do than hang out with his best friend from juniors. Like, looking back there was absolutely nothing that could explain the radio silence. It cut Dylan to the core.

 

To make things worse, Dylan had willingly decided to cut Connor a lot of slack, despite all his whining and Brinksy forcing him to write the fucking list.

 

He had cut Connor a lot of slack in March, when the Oilers were trying to secure a playoff spot.

 

(Watching videos of Connor waxing poetics about his teammates in general and Leon Draisaitl in particular had been as enlightening as it had been painful.)

 

He had cut Connor a lot of slack in April, when the Oilers were playing their first playoff series in a decade.

 

(By April, the McDavid-Draisaitl mutual admiration society had been so evident even Brinksy had rolled his eyes. Dylan hadn’t.)

 

He had cut Connor a lot of slack in early May, when the Oilers had to face the Ducks, to then be unceremoniously eliminated in six games.

 

(By May, the McDavid-Draisaitl thingy had officially become the new NHL bromance, up there with the best of them, according to commentators. Still, Dylan had been proud of Connor, so proud that he had sent him a text letting him know that. Not that it had mattered.)

 

He had cut Connor a lot of slack during Worlds, because he had assumed Connor would be following Canada to pick up pointers for the upcoming Olympics—if Bettman thought players wouldn't go to the Olympics next February he was as delusional as he was a moron.

 

(At the World cup, it looked like Connor had been as interested in Germany’s performance as he has been in Canada’s.)

 

But when Connor had come to Windsor to catch a game, and _he had not contacted Dylan,_ well … there wasn't much slack left for Dylan to cut, by that point.

 

Brinksy had tried to talk to him, tried to offer yet another excuse, but Dylan could tell by the look in his eyes that he was not only disheartened but also resigned. And Dylan had had enough. If Connor had decided he didn't want to be Dylan’s friend anymore, because he had found a newer, better, German model, there wasn't much Dylan could do about it. So he had focused on his game, channeling all his anger and frustration into hockey.

 

Not even that had been enough.

 

So now Dylan is left with two ultimately useless lists, no clue on how to move forward and a huge whole in his heart left by the most important person in his life, who has gone missing.

 

**III.**

 

By the time July comes around, any and all traces of the playoffs have been erased.

 

Dylan is clean-shaven once again, and his most recent haircut got rid of the blond hair. He has some frosted tips, but it’s mostly back to normal. His mom is relieved, not that Dylan can blame her. It’s a truly awful look.

 

Marns is back to the GTA and chomping at the bit to get together, but Dylan isn’t feeling it. He really doesn't want to answer uncomfortable questions. Marns doesn't know about the “Davo Situation”—Brinksy’s latest code word for the fuck-up that is Dylan’s personal life.

 

There have been a couple of street hockey tourneys with the McLeods, and a lot of old and new friends have turned up to attend, but Dylan hasn't invited Connor, and Connor hasn't shown up.

 

According to Brinksy, Connor has been back home in between gigs. Not that Dylan has asked, since he really doesn't want to know. It’s been more than five months since he last had any actual contact with Connor. He has been replaced, and even if everything he knows about Connor tells him that _it doesn't make any fucking sense_ , there isn’t much room for misunderstanding all the clues Connor threw his way.

 

For the most part, Dylan keeps himself to himself and trains—sometimes with his brothers, often with his trainers, preferably alone.

 

The future is uncertain, and after two years of trying, he knows he may not be able to make the NHL after all. In fact, it’s more than likely he will be sent to Tucson come October, if he is not traded somewhere else. It doesn't mean he is not going to do his best.

 

Hanging out with friends is something Dylan is doing, because he didn't have a personality transplant, but he does it in moderation. People ask him about Connor as a matter of course, and Dylan has become a champion at deflecting questions he doesn't have the answers to. It wouldn't be hard for him to find things out—everyone and their mothers know where Connor McDavid is at any given moment—but Dylan is not interested in stalking his former best friend. If someone suspects something is wrong, they haven’t said.

 

After a long string of one-night stands and binge-drinking nights meant to erase the memory of his playoff loss, Dylan decides to take a break from behaving like an immature idiot and focuses on his professional wellbeing. His parents appear visibly relieved and Brinksy graces him with a proud smile, which is however tinged with sadness. If Dylan weren’t so busy feeling sorry for himself, he would feel sorry for Alex, who is like the child caught in the middle of his parents’ divorce.

 

During the first week of July, the MacLeod brothers decide to organize “The Tournament to End All Tournaments” and they invite all their friends for a weekend of hockey extravaganza. Dylan is dragged into the preparations for the festivities despite the fact that he would rather eat glass. It is during one of the brainstorming sessions the McLeods are holding in their backyard that he is informed Connor McDavid will grace them with his presence.

 

“Are Connor and Draisaitl staying at your place?” Mikey McLeod asks him while Dylan is busy arguing with his brother Ryan about team colors.

 

“Huh?” he says eloquently, because he thinks he misunderstood.

 

“Connor said that he and Draisaitl are arriving a couple of days before the tourney. Are you putting them up?”

 

Dylan has to shake his head to clear it from the sudden rush of blood going to his brain. He cannot even figure out if it’s fury or dismay—the two emotions seem to be completely intertwined these days, when it comes to Connor.

 

“Not to my knowledge,” Ryan answers, saving Dylan from embarrassing himself.

 

Mikey’s eyebrows almost touch his hairline in surprise.

 

“Haven’t been asked,” Dylan finds a way to confirm. Which is better than “I haven’t talked to Davo in months, so stop asking me what he is up to because I don't fucking know.” Brinksy knows about the Connor situation, and his family knows something is up. This makes five people Dylan wishes didn't know there was a situation to begin with.

 

“Oh,” Mikey says, clearly at a loss.

 

 _Welcome to my fucking universe_ , Dylan thinks a bit uncharitably.

 

Realizing something is profoundly wrong, Ryan gets Dylan into a headlock and gives him a noogie.

 

“Between the two of them, they make enough money to rent a suite at the nearest five star hotel,” he says while Dylan tries to free himself. His brother is fucking strong, and he is used to fight with the best of them. It’s a losing battle, even if Dylan is taller. Still, it’s the principle of the thing. Middle brothers all around the world need a champion, and Dylan is up to the task.

 

“True,” Mike comments, before going back to discussing things with his own brother.

 

While the two McLeods are distracted, Ryan whispers in Dylan’s ear, “What the fuck is going on?”

 

Dylan, finally free from the headlock, sends him a withering look. They do not talk about this, and Ryan knows.

 

“Don't give me that look, Dyls. What the hell is wrong with Davo?”

 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Dylan says, getting up and leaving the table to get away from his brothers and his friends.

 

Ryan is undeterred, however, and follows him, leaving Mike and Ryan McLeod to argue about the tournament with Matty.

 

As soon as they are alone in a quiet corner of the McLeods’ backyard, Ryan grabs Dylan’s forearm.

 

“I let you in peace this past month because I know things got pretty heavy towards the end of the cup run, but this is getting ridiculous, Dylan. What is up with you and Davo?”

 

Dylan tries to free his arm, but Ryan’s grip is strong.

 

“Let go, Ryan. I really don't have time for this.”

 

“Find it,” Ryan replies, tightening his grip without hurting him.

 

“Okay, I don't want to talk about it, then. How is that?”

 

“No can do. Something is eating you up inside. You haven’t said a word about Connor since we have all been back home, and mom told me you’ve been in a mood since February.”

 

Dylan snorts, “That’s sounds about right.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“That’s more or less the last time I spoke to Davo,” Dylan admits reluctantly. He really doesn't want to talk about it, but it seems Ryan is relentless today.

 

Ryan looks visibly surprised.

 

“You are joking.”

 

“Nope,” Dylan says, emphasizing the _p_ for annoyance value.

 

“What did you do?”

 

After four years of close friendship, Connor McDavid decided that Dylan Strome was expendable and stopped contacting him. Even if Dylan knows he didn't do anything different, still Brinksy kept badgering him to contact Connor, which Dylan did to no avail. Brinksy knew this, and he kept making excuses until he had to accept the physical evidence of Connor’s behavior.

 

And now Dylan’s own brother is asking him what _he_ did? Like it’s his fault that Connor McDavid decided he didn't want to talk to him anymore? Like Dylan is the one who decided he didn't have time for his best friend? Like Dylan is the one who went MIA when things were so shitty he was ready to give it all up?

 

He finally gets free from Ryan’s grip and turns towards him, hands clenched, his whole body trembling with barely restrained anger.

 

“What did _I_ do?” he hisses, and Ryan recoils.

 

“What did _I_ do?” Dylan repeats when Ryan doesn't say anything in the face of Dylan’s fury.

 

“Why are you so quick to think _I_ did something, eh? Is Connor Fucking McDavid too perfect to make mistakes in his path to hockey sainthood? Is he too precious to behave like a fucking awful person and then be held accountable for his actions?”

 

Ryan raises his hands to defend himself but Dylan doesn't let him say a word.

 

“ _I_ am not the one who stopped calling. _I_ am certainly not the one who stopped texting,” he adds, eyes wet with tears that have nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the desperation of those months when he couldn't understand what was happening—Draisaitl’s presence notwithstanding.

 

“I am not the one who disappeared from one day to another without explanations. And if you believe for a second that he did this to me because of something I did to him, then fuck you, Ryan.”

 

By the time he spits out the last words, Mikey and Ryan McLeod have joined them, attracted by Dylan’s yelling. Matty is with them too, and his eyes are so big they look like they are about to explode.

 

“Dylan,” Mikey says, “I am sure there is a reasonable explanation…”

 

“You know what?” Dylan responds, furiously drying the tears that are streaking his cheeks. “I don't care if there is. I genuinely don't. He did a shitty thing, and now it’s somehow my fault. If you all think this is okay, then that’s fine, you are entitled to your opinion. But you can’t make me be okay with this, and you can’t make me be okay with Connor either.”

 

“Dylan,” Matty says, but Dylan has had enough.

 

“No. I am done. I didn't want to have this conversation with anyone, especially with you all, because I knew you’d take his side. Fuck it, Brinksy made excuses for him for months. _I_ made excuses for him for months. It’s like he cannot do wrong. But just because he is so good at hockey, doesn't mean he cannot be a jackass.”

 

“Dyls …” Mikey tries to interrupt him.

 

“Stop,” Dylan says, suddenly exhausted. “Just stop. I am going home. And take me off the roster for the tournament. I don't think it’s a good idea for me to be around any of you right now.”

 

With that, Dylan turns towards the house, and makes his way quickly onto to the street. He ignores his brothers’ calls and start running. Their house is not too far. They can all go fuck themselves and go worship at the McJesus altar. Dylan is done with this shit.

 

**IV.**

 

His parents aren’t home when Dylan gets back. He downs a Gatorade, since he is not interested in a heatstroke, before taking a shower. There is no way to hide he has been crying all the way back from the McLeods’, but right now it doesn't matter.

 

After drying up and getting dressed, Dylan locks himself in his room and goes through his phone. He has twenty-two new messages, mostly from Ryan, a couple from Matt, Mike and Ryan McLeod and one from Brinksy. That’s the only one Dylan reads.

 

 _I just heard. I am sorry_ , Alex says, and Dylan wants to cry again. When Brinksy makes an effort with spelling and punctuation it means things are dire indeed.

 

There isn’t much Dylan can answer, so he doesn't. He plugs in his headphone, pulls up one of the playlists he made when things stopped making any sense, and lays on the bed to listen to it.

 

He kills a couple of hours like that. Ryan and Matt come back home around the same time as their parents do, but nobody comes up to bother Dylan. He figures Ryan might have said something, because god forbid Dylan’s business stay Dylan’s business for longer than the time it takes to say “Hell, no!”

 

His phone buzzes occasionally—texts from Brinksy, mostly, but also Snaps from other friends and Instagram notifications. Dylan doesn't care. For the first time in months he feels like he can relax and, after thinking it over, he realizes that his elation comes mostly from having decided not to play the tournament. From having decided not to see Connor when it was in his power to do so. It’s like by choosing this, Dylan is able to get back a piece of himself. Yes, he had to withstand Connor setting him aside, and that remains unbearable and inexplicable. But the choice was never only Connor’s. Dylan can choose too. He can choose how much or how little he wants to think about Connor, talk about Connor and see Connor. And by not going to the tournament, and not seeing Connor, with or without Draisaitl around, Dylan is taking back some form of agency in this whole mess. It’s Connor’s mess, after all. Dylan hasn't changed.

 

A knock on the door brings him back to reality.

 

“Yes,” he says tiredly.

 

“I have dinner,” Ryan responds from the other side of the door.

 

And Dylan might be a post-adolescent whiner mourning the loss of an important friendship, but he is also a 6 foot 3 inches hockey player who is still growing, so he gets up and opens the door.

 

Ryan is holding a large pizza and a bottle of soda, which he must have gotten as a peace offering. It’s during the week, and Dylan’s mom is very careful about what her three sons eat, especially when they are under her roof.

 

“Can I come in?” Ryan asks, and Dylan waves him in, grabbing the pizza and taking it to his desk.

 

“Mom didn't give you grief?”

 

“It was her idea,” Ryan admits ruefully after sitting cross-legged on the floor.

 

Dylan’s eyebrows rise, because this is their mother’s equivalent of admitting there is an emergency. He is surprised only Ryan is banging at his door.

 

“I promised I would report back,” Ryan confesses.

 

“There isn’t anything to report,” Dylan says before taking a bit of a slice of pizza.

 

“Mom and dad said to leave you alone, and Brinksy refuses to tell me what he knows, Dyls. But Matt is freaked out, and quite honestly so am I.”

 

“So you decided to ignore mom and dad,” Dylan comments, devouring his slice and grabbing another one. At least he is not pining like a fucking nineteenth century shrinking violet—that’ll please Brinksy.

 

“Have you really not talked to Davo since February?” Ryan asks.

 

“January, actually. We spoke last right after the All Stars. It’s been radio silence since then,” Dylan admits, because he might not want to talk about this, and he might not want to drag his friends in the middle of whatever the fuck is happening in the McDavid-Strome saga, but Ryan is his brother, not Connor’s.

 

“With no explanation?”

 

“Nope,” Dylan confirms.

 

Ryan is silence for a few minutes, while he chews on his pizza. Dylan grabs a third slice while he waits for his brother to say anything.

 

“And he has been in contact with Brinksy?” Rylan says.

 

“And the rest of the Otters. I assume everybody else too. I haven’t asked,” Dylan confesses.

 

“You tried talking to him?”

 

“For three months. I gave up completely when he came to Windsor for the round robin and didn't contact me.”

 

“Jesus,” Ryan exhales, “but why?”

 

Dylan shakes his head. He _really_ doesn't want to discuss this with anyone. Ever. There has been enough introspection in the past few months to last him for a lifetime. He is a twenty-year old Canadian boy, for fuck’s sake, not a fifty-year old divorced man with three kids and a mortgage. There will be time for all this in thirty years.

 

“Nothing happened?” Ryan asks again, but the tone is different from the one he used at the McLeods’. Less accusatory, more like he is trying to untangle this mess.

 

“Not to my knowledge. We weren’t arguing, or fighting. Just the usual—bitching about the teams, making plans for the summer, guessing who’d made the playoffs in the Metro division. Normal stuff.”

 

“And then he went to the All Stars and everything changed?”

 

Dylan looks at Ryan, because, with everything that has happened in the past few months, he never made the connection. Connor had stopped speaking to him _after_ the All Stars, but Dylan had never thought Connor had stopped speaking to him _because_ of the All Stars, or because of something that happened there.

 

“I mean, I don't know if it had anything to do with that. He just stopped responding to my texts and hasn't picked up my calls since.”

 

“But why?” Ryan repeats flabbergasted. Like Dylan hasn't asked himself the same question a thousand times.

 

Dylan shrugs.

 

“What does Brinksy think?”

 

“Not much, at least not nowadays. We both made excuses until I couldn't anymore. I told him not to get in the middle, but I think he hasn't been in touch with Davo for a while. He was really mad at the end of the playoffs, especially because he had spent months defending him.”

 

Ryan runs his hand on his face before getting his phone out.

 

“What are you doing?” Dylan asks alarmed.

 

“Chill, little brother, I just checking the time. Matt gave me one hour, then he was going to call Connor. I am telling him not to do it.”

 

“And that’s why I didn't want to talk about it. People are going to feel like they have to get involved or to take sides, and there isn’t even an argument to take sides about.”

 

“Mikey and Ryan are keeping out of it,” Ryan reassures him. “They saw you freak out, and figured it was serious.”

 

“Thank god for small miracles,” Dylan says ironically while pondering if he can scarf down a fourth slice. He is pleasantly full, however, and decides not to risk it.

 

“What’s your next step?” Ryan asks.

 

“I haven’t gotten one. It’s done. If Connor wants to explain, he knows where to find me. Otherwise, it is what it is.”

 

“Dyls …”

 

“Ryan, you just found out. I have been living with this shit since February. I am exhausted.”

 

Ryan shuts up at that, and Dylan sees him visibly deflating. It’s not a nice sight, and it is another thing for which Dylan can be mad at Connor about.

 

“People are going to want to know why you aren’t there over the weekend.”

 

It’s Tuesday. The tournament is on Saturday and Sunday, with people starting to come into town on Thursday. There is supposed to be a big party on Friday at the McLeods’ and a pool party at Dylan’s on Saturday.

 

“Then, for once, Connor can answer uncomfortable questions. It’s what I have been doing for the past three months,” Dylan says with a certain degree of satisfaction.

 

“Where are you going to go?” Ryan asks.

 

“Nowhere,” Dylan answers. “I am not running out of town because Connor McDavid is blessing us with his presence. I am just not to be around for the tourney.”

 

“Marns is not going to let it go,” Ryan states. He is probably right. Dylan needs to talk to Marns before Friday, just to keep him in the loop.

 

“I’ll take care of Marns. As for everyone else, they are Connor’s problem, not mine.”

 

Ryan nods and then gestures at Dylan’s phone.

 

“You better do it ASAP. I stopped Matty from calling Connor, but he had already texted Marns before I got to him. He is gonna come over tonight.”

 

Dylan groans, because his brothers suck, even if he loves them.

 

“I am going to kill you all,” Dylan says. Just what he needs: Marns up his ass about the whole thing.

 

“You guys can have a sleepover like last summer and braid your hair while you gossip about boys,” Ryan laughs before getting up and stacking leftovers and dirty napkins on the desk for easy removal.

 

“Fuck off. We paint our nails and gossip about the latest fashion,” Dylan retorts, throwing a dirty sock at his brother.

 

“Whatever, dude. Just be prepared to another third degree.”

 

Then Ryan pulls him up from the bed where Dylan has been sitting and crushes him into a hug.

 

“I’m sorry I jumped the gun. I shouldn't have.”

 

Dylan sniffles, because Ryan’s hugs are the best hugs. He has an awesome big brother.

 

“Just fill in Matty and the parental unit, will you? I really don't want to explain the same thing twenty times.”

 

“Mom and dad said you can tell them when you are ready. You know how they are. I will talk to Matty, though.”

 

“Thanks,” Dylan says letting Ryan go. Ryan collects the trash and leaves behind the soda and the glasses.

 

“I will send Marns up when he shows. You may want to air your room. It stinks like teenage angst,” Ryan chirps him before letting himself out of Dylan’s room.

 

Dylan flips him off but follows Ryan’s advice.

 

**V.**

 

Marns arrives with beer, gelato, because he is the best friend ever, and Skittles, because he is—not so secretly—a five year old.

 

Ryan announces him with an “Incoming!” which allows Dylan to prepare for Hurricane Mitchell.

 

They have been friends for years, rivals for even longer, and they get along extraordinarily well for all that they are so completely different.

 

Mitch Marner is an energizer Bunny that will never, ever, ever run out of juice. Dylan can be as energetic as the next hockey player, but he too has a switch off button, something that whoever programmed Marns forgot to build in. It can make for exhausting exchanges.

 

It is therefore a surprise that when Marns enters Dylan’s room, he is not his usual self. Rather, he is serious, and a frown mars his forehead.

 

“What’s wrong?” Dylan asks, because despite what happened with Connor, he is a genuinely good friend who cares that the persons around him are well.

 

“Why didn't you tell me?” Marns responds after sitting on the floor and leaning against Dylan’s bed.

 

“You know you can talk to me, right? I am on your side, always. I mean, I am also on Davo’s side, but Matty made it sound like this was Davo’s fault, so I am 110% on your side.” He pulls out Dylan’s gelato and grabs a bag of Skittles for himself. He leaves the beer for now, which clues Dylan in about the fact that this is going to be a long night.

 

“That’s exactly why I didn't say anything. I don’t want anyone to take sides.”

 

“Brinksy told me you have been crying in your cereal since the end of January, when you were not crying on his shoulder. How come he got to know?”

 

“Because he was there, Mitch. He saw the whole thing go down. We room together on the road. It’s not like I could keep it from him.”

 

Marns divides his Skittles into groups by color and starts popping the green ones in his mouth. Dylan gets a spoon of chocolate gelato and lets out a satisfied moan.

 

“You are the best!” he says.

 

“Which is why you should have told me,” Marns responds chewing obnoxiously. “Together we can figure this shit out.”

 

“I don't want you caught in the middle,” Dylan re-iterates.

 

“Sorry to burst you bubble, Dyls, but I already am. Or I will be come Friday. What crawled up Davo’s ass and died anyway? Is, like, the pressure getting to him or something?”

 

“Don't know,” Dylan says, “and right now I don't care.”

 

Marns pulls up his phone.

 

“What are you doing?” Dylan asks.

 

“I am checking my messages and stuff to see if there is something that can help us figure this shit out, but I haven’t been in touch with Davo a lot. Mostly just congrats and sorry about getting kicked out of the playoffs. That kind of things.”

 

“They don't pay you enough to play detective,” Dylan comments. He really appreciates Marns’ commitment, considering that he knows absolutely nothing, but it seems premature and completely useless.

 

“Shut up. I have been watching _Law and Order_ ,” Marns responds, before realizing he has just handed over to Dylan six months worth of chirp material.

 

“What the fuck, Marns?” Dylan bursts out laughing, “are you suddenly my grandmother?”

 

“You wish,” Marns replies, although he is clearly embarrassed. “Matt Martin and Matts love it. And after a while it’s addicting.”

 

“Martin and Matthews love it, eh?” Dylan says waggling his eyebrows.

 

Marns throws the empty bag of Skittles at him. He is done with the greens and demolishing the yellows right now.

 

“Fuck off. Anyways, I've got nothing. Mind giving me some background, here?”

 

Dylan sighs and recounts everything that has happened, including his blow out at the McLeods. He also relates the last few convos he had with Connor before they stopped speaking, and, because this is Marns, he tells him about how all seemed to coincide with Connor getting close with Draisaitl.

 

Marns lets him talk, humming here and there in agreement or surprise, but never interrupting. He is a good listener, for all that he doesn't seem to ever power down. People don't always realize that, because they are deceived by Marns’ energy and exuberance.

 

Once Dylan is done, Marns continues to chew on his Skittles for a while—by now he is on bag number two, yellow ones again.

 

“I don't think it has anything to do with his teammate,” he says then. “I mean, I get that you go to a new team and you find new buddies on the team and whatever. It’s normal. But you and Davo have been close also outside of hockey. And Connor is really not like that.”

 

“Don't you think I haven’t been telling this to myself for months now?” Dylan responds. “Or that I haven’t heard it from Brinksy?”

 

“I get it, Stromer. I am just saying it’s weird. It’s such a non-Davo move to make, it boggles the mind.”

 

“Welcome to my world,” Dylan mutters under his breath.

 

“And he offered no explanation,” Marns continues. It’s clearly not a question and Dylan realizes that Marns believes him unconditionally. He is not questioning Dylan’s account or his recollection of the events. He is taking what Dylan told me as the truth, and he is trying to find a solution.

 

Dylan shrugs, because he’s got nothing, and Marns continues to think while chewing on Skittles. He is also doing something with his phone and after a while the unmistakable sound of a text message comes through.

 

“Interesting,” he says.

 

“What is?” Dylan asks.

 

“I enlisted Matts. Don't worry,” he adds before Dylan can protest, “he knows nothing. I just asked him if he had spoken to Davo recently, since I haven’t. Apparently Connor called him a few days ago to see if Matts was coming to the tournament.”

 

Dylan raises his eyebrows. Sure, Connor has played with Auston Matthews on Team North America last September, but they are not exactly best buddies. It’s not like they don't get along, but they are very similar in certain ways, and, from what Dylan has heard from Mitch, completely opposite in others.

 

“Matts’ reaction too, if I am reading the emoji right,” Marns laughs.

 

“Mikey told me Matts was thinking of coming,” Dylan says.

 

“Yep. He was gonna be in Toronto for some photo shoot or something, so he figured he should come up a week earlier. He has heard me talking about the tournaments for the entire season. He wants to see what’s all about.”

 

“But why would Connor want to know if Matts is coming?” Dylan asks.

 

“Excellent question, to which Auston has no answer. And neither do I. Maybe it’s some first overall pick shit.”

 

Dylan rolls his eyes, because despite what he wrote on “Brinksy’s List”, your draft’s number ultimately doesn't really matter. Jamie Benn could write a book about that. Chris Kunitz too, come to think of it. They are both Olympians, on top of everything else.

 

Since Dylan has been done with his gelato for a while, he opens a beer, miraculously still cold despite the warm weather. He also passes one to Marns because, knowing him, he is soon going to get tired of sugar and crave alcohol.

 

Marns grins and takes the beer before putting the phone on the floor.

 

“So we need a plan,” he announces.

 

“A plan for what?” Dylan asks, already dreading the answer.

 

“A plan for figuring out what is going on in Davo’s little brain. Come on, Dyls. I get that you are sick of the whole thing, but aren’t you a teensy bit curious?”

 

Dylan takes a sip of his beer and stays silent.

 

“Okay, sorry, wrong approach,” Marns concedes. “I understand what you told me and all that shit about empowerment and taking back your life or whatever. But I don't really think you are going to be fine until you get some answers. That’s not how you are, Dyls.”

 

“This is the new me. Not giving a fuck. I am told it’s what one does when one grows up,” Dylan explains with a smirk.

 

“Right, because that’s very believable. Come on. We’ll just figure something out, enlist some help from Matts and Brinksy, and maybe your brothers, and we’ll force Connor to spill the beans.”

 

“And what makes you think I care?”

 

Marns focuses his laser sharp gaze on Dylan, silently challenging him to sustain the lie for longer than the time it took him to say it. They have known each other too long for Dylan to be able to fool him convincingly. And, like, seriously, he does want to move on from this fuck-up mess that’s his awkward situation with Connor.

 

“I am not coming to the tournament,” he says.

 

“That’s fine. I don't need you there. I just need you close by in case I have to lock you and Davo in a closet.”

 

“This is not one of your mom’s rom-com, Marns.”

 

“Don't front it, Stromer. You wish you could watch rom-com with my mom. She is awesome.”

 

“Whatever,” Dylan says, because Mrs. Marner is objectively really cool. “Just don't really do anything stupid.”

 

“It looks like Davo has cornered the market for that, Stromer, so I am not worried,” Marns comments before finishing his beer and opening another one.

 

“Okay, enough of this shit,” Dylan says. “Tell me how it is to play for the Leafs.”

 

Marns’ eyes lit up even more than they usually are, and he proceeds to regale Dylan with everything and anything that happened during his rookie season in Toronto. Some of it, Dylan had heard about through texts or seen on social media, but it’s nice to hear it directly from Marns. His enthusiasm is contagious and it’s easy to see why he thrived with a group of people who let him be who he is.

 

Marns’ stories seem to focus around the other rookies and Matt Martin, but he is clearly very fond of Morgan Rielly and Freddie Andersen as well—something anyone with a pair of eyes can see from the Leafs’ game highlights.

 

Dylan lets Marns talk, and allows himself to be lulled in the warmth of the friendship the two of them have created in the most unlikely of places.

 

**VI.**

 

Friday arrives sooner that Dylan expected. It helps a lot that Marns appoints himself Dylan’s babysitter and drags him back to Toronto. He enlists Dylan’s help to look for a place to live for next season—because Dylan is notoriously an expert in real estate. Still, it passes the time and there are quite a few places they see which would suit Marns nicely. They narrow it down to two, which Marns plans to come and see with his parents as soon possible.

 

They also play mini-golf and, when Auston Matthews finally arrives in town, they pick him up from Pearson and involve him in their adventures, which mostly consist in getting stuff for Marns’ apartment, playing video games and training. Matts really sucks at COD.

 

Dylan has never met Matthews, and he is pleasantly surprised. For all that the guy is a monster on the ice, poised and well spoken during interviews, and charming with reporters, he is a goofball in person. They hit it off immediately by ganging up against Marns, who takes it good-naturedly, because, as he puts it, “It’s not like I am not used to it.” Apparently Matts and Zach Hyman often makes Mitch the target of their pranks.

 

Ryan tells Dylan that Connor and Draisaitl have arrived and ended up staying in a hotel, at least according to Mikey McLeod. Dylan shrugs, but it bothers him that the cold war going on with Connor, or whatever it is, is hurting Ryan and Matty, who have always liked Connor, who liked them in return.

 

The kick-off party on Friday is, as far as Dylan knows, in full swing, when Dylan begins to get the first reports from what Marns has labeled “Stromer’s Squad”—because on top of being surrounded by a group of dumb hockey players, Dylan is also friends with Taylor Swift wannabes. There is a fucking group chat by the same name, and at first it includes Marns, Matty, Ryan, Alex and Auston Matthews, who occasionally looks at all of them judgmentally. Marns slaps him on the head often enough for that that Matts eventually stops. When the McLeods hear about it, they want in, because they are gossipy great-aunts, and Marns adds them once they promise they’ll do what they can to help. The Raddyshes get included by Brinksy, because he wants some Otters on Stromer’s Squad and all of a sudden Dylan has almost a dozen people in his corner.

 

“It’s going to look like Davo is entering enemy territory,” Marns says gleefully right before the party. It’s really not the point, but Dylan appreciates the sentiment.

 

The first text is from Marns, who sends him a picture of Connor deep in conversation with Ryan McLeod.

 

“McJesus has arrived,” the text announces, as if Dylan needed it to be spelled out.

 

It opens the floodgates. For the next hour, Dylan gets a play-by-play of what Connor is doing at any given point. Everyone participates, and Marns and Brinksy sends picture after picture. Dylan doesn't know whether to feel amused by his friends’ antics or saddened by what he sees.

 

Connor looks good. He has clearly had the time to put back on some of the weight he lost during the season, and he has been working out and spending time in the sun. His hair is blonder than usual and he is tan, the white t-shirt he is wearing emphasizing his color even in the shitty light of the McLeods’ basement. In one of the photos, he is smiling at Taylor, who is smiling back—Dylan is happy to see that his friends are not being dickheads. As much as he is mad and hurt, he doesn't want to create tension between Connor and the Otters.

 

 _It’s a pity Davo is an idiot. Draisaitl is actually kinda of cool_ , Marns writes after a while.

 

 _You think Willy is cool, Marns_ , is Matts’ response.

 

 _What can I say. Europeans are awesome_ , Marns fires back, adding a few eggplants, just because.

 

On a private chat, Marns says, _Draisaitl asked me where you were. Think he is doing Connor’s dirty work?_

Dylan ponders that for a bit, while playing Farm Heroes Saga—Candy Crash is so 2015, plus he never went past level 576.

 

 _Dunno_ , he says. _Not Davo’s style._

 

 _Who knows what Davo’s style is these days, dude_ , Marns writes back.

 

On the “Stromer’s Squad” chat, Taylor Raddysh provides a short summary of his convo with Connor, which amounts to things Dylan could have found out from Instagram. He didn't look, Matty did, in an attempt to show affection in the only way a teenager can.

 

The evening goes on with Dylan trying to win poppies at Farm Heroes Saga—he hates those fucking bulls—and people updating him about all things McDavid and Draisaitl, who is by general consensus a pleasant guy, if a bit shy when surrounded by people he just met. Still, he doesn't stick to Davo, according to Brinksy, but talks to a lot of people. Dylan can be glad he hasn't be replaced by a jerk, at least. Maybe he was replaced because _he_ is a jerk.

 

The party winds down around 1AM, because most of the people there have to play in the morning. Marns wants to come over and debrief, but Dylan sends him home. They can catch up tomorrow. He turns off his phone, takes a quick shower and gets into bed

 

Dylan falls asleep shortly thereafter, and he doesn't hear Ryan and Matty come back home. His sleep is restless, plagued by weird dreams in which he is on the ice but cannot tie his skates. Sometimes he is chased by poppies and bulls.

 

A loud noise wakes him up when it’s still dark outside. A look at his alarm clock shows it’s only five in the morning and he turns to go back to sleep when he hears the noise again. It comes from his window.

 

Dylan gets up and goes to window, which faces the Stromes’ backyard. Downstairs, in the middle of the grass, he sees a bleary-eyed Auston Matthews and Marns, who is preparing to throw another piece of whatever he has been throwing at Dylan’s window.

 

Dylan opens the window quickly and whispers, “What the fuck are you doing?”

 

“Come down and let us in, Stromer,” Marns whispers in return. The whole thing is so ridiculous Dylan wants to burst out laughing, but he is afraid he is going to wake up his family. So he tosses on a t-shirt and runs downstairs to let in his unexpected guests.

 

As soon as Marns and Matts are in his house, Marns says, “Please tell me you have coffee. I promised Auston I would get him some, but Starbucks doesn't open until 6:30.”

 

“It’s five o’clock, Mitch,” Dylan says taking them to the kitchen. The coffee pot is good to go, so Dylan switches the timer off and turns the pot on so they can all get some coffee. And by all he means everyone but Marns, who seems perfectly awake.

 

Matts sits down at the kitchen table and lays his head on his arms.

 

“What have you done with him?” Dylan asks raising his eyebrows.

 

Marns waves his hand dismissively, “He is fine. He just needs coffee.”

 

“I need to sleep for twelve hours,” Matts grumbles.

 

“You never sleep more than seven,” Marns retorts.

 

“Well,” Dylan says, because he really doesn't want to touch that.

 

Matts moans pitifully, but perks up as soon as the smell of coffee begins to spread in the kitchen.

 

Marns laughs and _ruffles his hair_ , which is admittedly not as styled as usual. Dylan is actually impressed Matts doesn't snarl. He doesn't seem the type to tolerate this level of familiarity from just everyone. But then Mitch Marner tends to have that effect on people. He bulldozes his way into everyone’s personal space.

 

In short order, Dylan pulls out cups for the coffee as well as cereal and milk. It may be early, but he is hungry, and he knows Mitch will eat whenever he can.

 

The kitchen is silent for the few minutes it takes for the caffeine to work his magic.

 

Then Marns speaks once again.

 

“Matts had a very interesting conversation with Davo.”

 

“And you couldn't tell me last night?” Dylan inquires.

 

“He didn't tell me until we got home. By then it was almost two. I tried to call, but your phone is off.”

 

“Yes, because I wanted to sleep,” Dylan explains like he is dealing with a toddler.

 

“You should never switch off your phone at night. You never know what you are missing,” Marns responds flashing his smile.

 

Matts moans again, like he has heard this argument before and came out of it on the losing side. Dylan is unimpressed. He expects better from Marns’ friends.

 

“Right,” he says, because they are here now, and there isn’t much point in complaining.

 

“So what, you decided to come here and it took you three hours?”

 

“Worse,” Matts says. “He thought about it for two hours. Then he came to wake me up and asked my opinion for another twenty minutes. _Then_ he decided to come over.”

 

“I would apologize for Marns’ behavior,” Dylan tells Matts with a rueful smile, “but I stopped doing that in 2014.”

 

“Not cool!” Marns says, but Matts laughs.

 

“No need, dude. It’s not like I don't know him.”

 

“Auston!” Marns shrieks. “Not cool at all!”

 

Dylan hugs him sideways before filling his cup with more coffee.

 

“Okay, then. What’s the big news that couldn't wait until three hours from now?”

 

Marns looks at Matts, who looks at Marns, who shrugs.

 

“McDavid cornered me at the end of the evening,” Matts begins. “I was talking to Darren Raddysh, who, like, scampered quickly, by the way.”

 

“Okay,” Dylan says, and takes a sip of his coffee.

 

“Did you know that McDavid is bi?” Auston Matthews asks nonchalantly.

 

Dylan spits his coffee all over Marns, who is sitting closest to him.

 

“Jesus Christ, Stromer. Gross!” Marns says, getting up to grab paper towels to clean up the mess.

 

Dylan doesn't pay attention to him, focusing rather on Matts.

 

“What did you just say?”

 

“I asked if you know that your best friend, Connor McDavid, is bi,” Matts repeats, taking another sip of his coffee. He is not spitting anywhere all over the Stromes’ kitchen like Dylan just did.

 

Dylan shakes his head, astonished by the direction the conversation has taken.

 

“What does that have anything to do with anything?”

 

“I told you Stromer knew,” Marns says. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

 

“I didn't take the bet, and I said I was 85 per cent sure too. You said 140, but you always exaggerate anyways.”

 

“Guys,” Dylan interrupts them, because it looks like they are about to start bickering and now it’s really _not_ the time. “Can someone explain to me what the fuck does Davo’s sexuality have anything to do with anything?”

 

“So you knew,” Matts insists, his dark eyes suddenly focused on Dylan with the laser-sharp intensity he must usually reserve for opposing teams’ goalies.

 

“Yes,” Dylan admits, “but that’s none of our business and it has nothing to do with what is going on.”

 

“That’s not entirely accurate,” Matts says.

 

Dylan turns to Marns, because Matts is taking his sweet time, and Dylan is losing his patience. It’s too early in the morning and he is ready for the whole show, not just Matts’ cryptic teasers. Marns doesn't disappoint.

 

“Apparently someone at the All Stars felt compelled to inform Connor that despite all the show the League is doing to support You Can Play and inclusion, a big contingent of players is adamantly against it and doesn't want … people to think everybody can actually play hockey.”

 

Completely floored, Dylan looks from Marns to Matts and back again. The whole thing seems too preposterous to be true. For god’s sake, the Leafs did an ad back in the spring specifically against misogynist and homophobic behavior.

 

“That was my reaction too, when I heard,” Matts says. “A guy told me too…”

 

“Who?” Dylan asks, but Matts shakes his head.

 

“I am not telling you, and neither is Connor, trust me. You don't want to touch that one with a ten-feet pole. The difference is that Connor took it much worse than I did.”

 

Dylan opens his mouth to comment on that, but he stops when he sees Marns’ expression. Better not assume anything, it seems.

 

Matts winks and says, “From what Connor told me tonight, he had this conversation on Sunday, which means he didn't have time to talk with anybody before he left LA to go back to Edmonton. I, on the other hand, was approached on Saturday morning and I had all the time in the world to go to Sidney Crosby about it.”

 

“You talked to Crosby?” Dylan asks and then, to Marns, “Did you know about this?”

 

“It was all news to me until Matts told me earlier. Guess this is something to look forward if we ever make it to the All Star,” Marns says.

 

“If this is what we have to look forward to, I will pass, thanks.”

 

“It wasn't that bad,” Matts says. “I mean, that was the only shitty thing that happened over the weekend. Everyone else was really nice and the creepiest thing was that this dude really thought he was helping.”

 

Dylan doesn't know what to say to that, so he keeps his mouth shut.

 

“Anyways,” Matts continues, “Crosby seemed the logical choice—what with the whole Canadian hockey messiah or whatever. He was actually very supportive once he stopped being furious.”

 

“He was?” Dylan asks. Not that he is surprised. Sidney Crosby is well known for being an outstanding guy off the ice. Dylan heard it from both Ryan and John Tavares that Sidney is one of the best ones out there, and that the league would be a much better place to play in if there were more guys like him, as opposed to more goons who will remain unnamed.

 

Matts nods. “He took me to dinner, convinced me to tell him everything, and promised me that that guy represents what is progressively becoming a small minority. He said that things have changed dramatically in the league since he got in and that they will continue to change because of people like Patrick Burke and those who work tiredlessly to make his message heard.”

 

“I mean, I know that some players are not homophobic,” Dylan says, “Look at how Marchand called out that loser on Twitter.”

 

“Yes,” Marns comments, “but then you have people like the Dallas Stars who don't participate to the Pride Week and you see why Connor was so freaked out.”

 

“Right,” Matts says, “not to mention the whole mess with Getzlaf during the playoffs.”

 

Dylan nods thoughtfully.

 

“Anyways,” Matts continues, “Crosby was very cool and very reassuring, so by the time I left LA I had all but dismissed the whole thing.”

 

“But Connor didn't get to talk to Crosby and was left with a bomb on his lap ready to explode,” Marns finishes.

 

“It doesn't help that Connor is captain,” Dylan muses, “he must have thought that he was being recruited to keep this shit up with the Oilers.”

 

“Very likely,” Marns says.

 

“So you explained all this to Connor tonight?” Dylan asks Matts, who nods.

 

“Yes, I did. I think knowing I had talked to Crosby went a long way to reassure him. He told me he was going to call him too, so that he knew people were systematically approaching rookies and other young guys about this.”

 

“People?” Dylan says. “I thought the same person had approached the two of you.”

 

“Nope,” Matts says. “We got one player each.”

 

“Jesus,” Dylan says. “This is nuts.”

 

“Not really, if you think about it,” Marns says. “We saw a lot of shit in juniors. And it’s not like either of us has been a saint. It’s not such a huge stretch that this stuff continues in the major league.”

 

“That’s true,” Dylan concedes, because he is honest enough to admit he used words like _faggot_ and _cocksucker_ a lot before Connor pulled him aside and told him how unprofessional and immature he was showing to be by using those slurs. That had been the first clue Dylan had had that Connor McDavid was not necessarily straight. Confirmation had come when he had seen Connor’s tongue shoved down an opposing team’s captain’s throat their second year on the Otters. Connor had never officially come out to Dylan, but he hadn’t need to.

 

“Still, to know that there are players deliberately working to sabotage You Can Play and recruiting people for that is pretty awful,” Dylan says.

 

“That’s what I told Mo when I got back to Toronto,” Matts says.

 

“Because he told everyone but me,” Marns says while pouring himself a bowl of cereal and milk. When Matts murmurs, “One for me?” Marns flips him off, but Dylan takes pity on him, because right now Matts is a saint in Dylan’s books.

 

Once Matts has some food in him he resumes his tale.

 

“Mo didn't know about this, so he talked about it with the other Alternates. Bozak had heard of it, but had dismissed it. I think Mo got in touch with Crosby to see what to do, but Crosby must have told him to hold his horses for now. That was that.”

 

“No one must have contacted Connor about this,” Marns suggests.

 

“Right,” Matts says, “because no one must have thought it was necessary. The only change in Connor’s behavior was that he stopped talking to you, right?”

 

Dylan nods, and it hurts. It hurts a lot that Connor didn't think he could have come to Dylan with this. Maybe Dylan cannot understand the confusion Connor must have felt—being approached by an older player, possibly someone Connor admires or even idolizes, and being told that there is no place for people like Connor in the NHL. Maybe Dylan cannot understand that. But he loves Connor, and Connor knows that. They said it to each other so often in the years they’ve been friends. Connor knows Dylan loves him and still he had felt the best way to deal with this was to distance himself from Dylan.

 

“Stromer,” Marns begins, but Dylan shakes his head.

 

“Leave it, Marns,” Dylan says, trying to stop the tears from falling.

 

Marns is a little shit when he wants, however.

 

“It’s not on you, Stromer. As much as it sucks, this is all on Connor.”

 

“He should have told me, Marns,” Dylan says exhaling heavily.

 

“Not disagreeing with you, buddy,” Marns comments. “I am just saying not to blame yourself for something you couldn't help.”

 

“Mitchy is right, Stromer,” Matts agrees. “And in any case I made sure to tell McDavid that he needs to talk to you.”

 

“You what?” Marns yells. Dylan shushes him, because it might be getting lighter outside, but it is still on the wrong side of seven o’clock and Dylan’s parents and brothers are asleep.

 

“You never tell me anything,” Marns pouts, laying his head on Dylan’s shoulder and pretending to scoot away from Matts.

 

“That’s because I can’t keep up with you otherwise,” Matts answers dragging Marns back to him and side-hugging him.

 

“You can cuddle later,” Dylan interrupts. “Fill me in on the rest.”

 

“I just told him that if that was the reason he had stopped talking to you, he needed to figure his shit out and clear the air—for both your sakes. He agreed. For what is worth it, Stromer,” Matts adds, “I don't think he did what he did to hurt you. I think he was trying to protect himself, for sure. But he didn't set out to hurt you.”

 

“I still don't get why he didn't tell me,” Dylan says.

 

Marns and Matts exchange a glance that Dylan cannot interpret, and then Matts shrugs his shoulders.

 

“Can’t help you there. But I assure you, you are going to hear from him sooner rather than later.”

 

Dylan doesn't know what to say to that, but Marns doesn't seem to have that problem.

 

“Isn’t he awesome? And this is off-ice,” he smirks like the moron he is. Matts rolls his eyes and fucking _blushes_ , and Dylan is of all a sudden thankful he hasn't made any idiotic comments about Auston Matthews’ assumed sexuality. In hindsight, the speed with which he went to Crosby, the top of the hockey food chain, speaks to the fact that Matts has a vested interest in the success of the You Can Play campaign. He wonders if Mitch knows.

 

“He is pretty awesome,” Dylan concedes, because making fun of Marns is always a good thing, even when Marns doesn't realize he is being made fun of.

 

“So maybe now would be a good time to turn on your phone,” Matts suggests, and that has Dylan running up to his room to grab the phone he left charging there.

 

By the time he is back in the kitchen, Marns and Matts are eating a second bowl of cereal and they started another pot of coffee. They are not talking, but the companionship they share reminds Dylan of him and Connor when they were still playing together. It’s a level of intimacy you can only get with your teammates, and Dylan misses this with Connor more than anything.

 

“Well?” Marns asks when Dylan sits down at the kitchen table.

 

Dylan is going through his messages and there, in a thread that has been quiet for months, is a short note:

 

_I’ll be at the usual spot tomorrow at 9. Come? Please._

**VII.**

The usual spot is a secluded bench in a park not far from the Strome and McLeod’s houses, where they all used to go to play Frisbee when they wanted some variety from street hockey. Dylan found the bench by chance, when he was sent to retrieve an ill-tossed Frisbee by one of their friends. The bench is old, a leftover from a previous era that the city must have overlooked in its remodeling of the park, but it is sturdy and surprisingly confortable. Dylan and Connor used to sit there during their summers and talk about hockey and the future.

 

Dylan gets there around eight. It’s a nice sunny day, perfect for the first day of the tournament.

 

Dylan had left Matts and Marns to sleep in his bed, took a shower and woke up Ryan to fill him in with the news and with orders to get the two Leafs superstars up at some point in the morning.

 

Once Dylan had finished his explanation, Ryan had taken his phone and gone to call his captain, because, as he put it, “This shit needs handling now.” Dylan is not sure what Ryan hopes Tavares can achieve on a Saturday morning in the middle of the summer, but he lets him to his thing.

 

When Dylan arrives at the bench, Connor is already there, pacing around with the phone in his hand. He has clearly been checking it often, despite the fact that Dylan had sent him a text telling him he would be there.

 

“Connor,” Dylan says, because calling him Davo right now is not something Dylan is prepared to do. Things may be close to be fine, but there is a sea of hurt to overcome yet.

 

“Dyls,” Connor says when he sees him and he goes to hug Dylan before stopping himself. Something in Dylan’s expression must have tipped him off the hug would not be welcomed right now.

 

They stare at each other for what seems like forever. Connor does look good in a loose t-shirt and short—the photos Dylan got last night weren’t lying—but it is clear he is also stressed, and he has been for a while. Now that Dylan has an idea of what’s been going on in the past few months, he can see the signs of tension in the way Connor carries himself and around his eyes.

 

Trying to break the impasse, Dylan approaches the bench and sits down, leaving enough space for Connor to do the same. Once Connor does that, Dylan gestures at him to talk. He feels awful about what Connor must have gone through, but it is Connor’s show, and he is the one who finally wanted to talk.

 

Connor looks at him intently, and Dylan is used to this, but it has been so long that he fidgets a bit.

 

“I am so sorry, Dyls,” Connor finally says, the words soft-spoken but heartfelt. “I should have told you what was going on.” He is clearly working under the correct assumption Dylan has been told what happened at the All Star.

 

“You should have,” Dylan agrees, although not unkindly.

 

Connor runs a hand through his hair before leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

 

“I just couldn't believe what was happening, Dyls. It was like the stuff from my worst nightmares and I didn't know where to turn,” Connor explains while rubbing his eyes in an obvious attempt at stopping his tears from falling.

 

Dylan desperately wants to touch him, but so many things have changed between the two of them in the past months he doesn't know how to.

 

“You could have come to me, Connor,” he says quietly. They may never have discussed Connor’s sexuality openly, but Dylan never shied away from touching Connor once it became obvious Connor liked guys as much as he liked girls. Connor must know that Dylan doesn't care about that.

 

“I wanted to,” Connor confesses, looking at him with green eyes filled with remorse. “But we never talked about this…”

 

“When did I ever make you feel like this type of thing would be a problem?”

 

“I had to ask you to stop using certain words, Dylan,” Connor says harshly.

 

“Because I was a fucking kid who didn't know better. Give me a fucking break, Connor. That behavior is inexcusable, but it was a learned behavior, and I unlearned it quickly.”

 

Dylan swallows, because he knows he fucked up then, but he thought they had gone past it.

 

“I know, I know,” Connor said quickly. “And I really appreciate the fact you were so supportive…”

 

“I wasn't, though, was I,” Dylan interrupts him, because if they are clearing the air, they are doing it once and for all.

 

“At least not enough. If I had been supportive, you’d felt like you could actually come and talk to me about things like boyfriends and hook-ups. You’d have actually come out to me and told me about your crushes or whatever. And I would have been the first person you called after that fucking jerk tried to intimidate you into becoming a homophobic asshole.”

 

Connor just stares at Dylan astonished before saying, “No, Dyls. This is not on you. I appreciate what you are trying to say, but you were right before. I never felt like I couldn't tell you about this type of things after that time with the insults. You stopped immediately and were so careful. And you didn't mock me when you caught me with Kyle…”

 

“There was nothing to mock you about. You caught me with girls so many times you'll probably need therapy for a decade,” Dylan attempts to joke, and it gets a small smile out of Connor.

 

They are sitting together, closer than they have been in almost a year, and Dylan still doesn't know what to do.

 

“Did you talk to someone, at least?” Dylan asks, although by now he suspects the answer to that. Draisaitl’s presence suddenly makes much more sense.

 

Connor nods, confirming Dylan’s suspicions.

 

“Leon got it out of me a month after I got back from LA. He could see something was off and we spend enough time together that he realized I wasn't talking to you any more. He thought we had a stupid fight or something, and when I said we hadn’t he didn't let go. He is a good guy.”

 

Connor looks almost apologetic when he says that, as if he didn't deserve to find someone who could be there for him when he needed it. Dylan might be as jealous and as immature as fuck about having been replaced, but he loves Connor too much not to want him to be happy.

 

“I am glad,” he says, and he means it. Dylan is a jerk, and vain, and a shitty friend, and he can be rude to people, but he wants Connor to be happy.

 

Connor smiles again, which Dylan counts as a win. “For what is worth, he has been badgering to tell you everything. He has also been badgering me to speak to You Can Plan and other people in the league but …” Connor doesn't finish his sentence and Dylan raises his eyebrows in an invitation to continue. If Connor had Draisaitl in his corner, Dylan doesn't understand why he didn't try to figure this shit out until right now.

 

“But …?” he says.

 

“We got busy with the end of the season and the playoff run,” Connor explains. “Then Leon went to Worlds and I tagged along because I wanted some space from the NHL and the whole toxicity of the thing, you know?”

 

Dylan nods, because he gets at least that, wanting to get away from it all.

 

“And then Getzlaf comes out and calls a referee _cocksucker_ and I just wanted to curl up in a ball and die,” Connor continues.

 

“And the NHL gives him a $10,000 fine and doesn't suspend him,” Dylan adds, “because in this case, if you can play, you can play.”

 

Connor does not smile at that, although the light in his eyes indicates he appreciates Dylan’s attempt at humor.

 

“Right. So, you know, I convinced myself that what I had been told was true after all and that I had to suck it up and deal. Leon kept telling me to talk to someone else, like some veterans who had done a You Can Play video, or one of those NHL ambassadors, but I was not really feeling it.”

 

“But you talked to Auston,” Dylan says, and it’s not quite a question, but almost.

 

“He is solid,” Connor says. “You know we played together on Team North America. He is really supercool and levelheaded, and Mitch has only good things to say about him. You know how a good judge of character he is. I figured, if I got approached, he might have been too. So I decided to follow Leon’s advice and asked Matts. I just wish I had done that back in February, Dyls.”

 

“It probably would have saved a lot of heartache all around, Connor,” Dylan says, because Connor is still Connor, and not Davo quite yet, but he is getting there.

 

“I know,” Connor says apologetically, his face suddenly in his hands.

 

“Hey,” Dylan tentatively puts a hand on Connor’s shoulder, because he is not quite sure how to deal with this, and he is still hurt, but he doesn't want Connor to feel like Dylan is not there for him.

 

Connor immediately reaches for his hand and traps it in his own, and Dylan lets him hold on to him.

 

After a while Dylan asks, “What’s the game plan now?” because Connor might have taken five months to get on with the program, but now that he knows he is not alone—beside Draisaitl, whom Dylan should start calling Leon, since it looks like the dude might be around for a while—Connor is going to unhinge the universe.

 

“I texted Sid last night after I talked to Auston,” Connor confides and it boggles Dylan’s mind that Connor is on a first name basis with Sidney Fucking Crosby.

 

“What did he say?” Dylan asks, although it was probably late when Connor texted; Crosby may have other things to do in his life other than dealing with the homophobia seemingly running rampart in the NHL.

 

“He wants to talk,” Connor explains. “I told him I was busy this weekend, but I am going to call him early next week. He knows I talked to Auston, and he is really mad. He already got in touch with Patrick Burke about the whole thing when he spoke to Auston back in January. He wants me to ask if Nuge and other Oilers who went to the All Star were ever approached about this as well. He also wants to know who is involved.”

 

“Matts said neither you nor he would say anything about that,” Dylan says.

 

“We may have to,” Connor admits. “Sid says we can’t fight an invisible enemy. If we want these people to stop behaving this way, we need to expose them.”

 

Dylan is not so sure things may be as simple as Sidney Crosby seems to think. However, if there is someone in the league who can move an unmovable object it’s him, so Dylan can offer whatever support they need from him and let the big guns making the big decisions.

 

“Whatever you think is best,” he says.

 

Connor squeezes Dylan’s hand and doesn't let go.

 

“I am really sorry, Dyls. I know I behaved poorly. I wasn't really thinking straight, and with the team and the captaincy, and everything …”

 

Dylan just nods because now he knows, and he understands, and he can start healing, bit by bit. They both can.

 

“At least something good came out of this,” he says, trying for a lighter tone.

 

Connor raises his eyebrows questioningly, and Dylan waggles his, “You and Draisaitl?”

 

And Connor goes red in the face like if he had just spent ten hours in the desert sun and then he says, “What?”

 

“What?” Dylan responds.

 

“Me and Leon? What? No, Stromer,” and Dylan is confused, because Connor had said that Draisaitl had been supportive and good and …

 

“Oh my god, Stromer, yuck!” Connor says.

 

“Yuck?” Dylan repeats, and he may not be gay or bisexual, but he has eyes and Leon Draisaitl is not exactly the worst looking dude that ever graced the McLeod-Strome Tournament.

 

“Yuck!” Connor repeats for emphasis, and Dylan giggles, because they are apparently back in middle school.

 

“Leon is a friend. And he has a girlfriend, although it’s not public knowledge, so don't say anything.”

 

Dylan nods, implicitly promising his lips are sealed. Who would he tell anyway? Marns most likely already knows, because everyone confides in Marns.

 

“Okay. Well, at least you got another good friend out of it,” and it’s still hard to think he has been replaced, although Dylan now knows it’s not as bad as he feared, and that Connor got lost in his head like he does when things become too much.

 

“It still doesn't excuse the way in which I treated my best friend,” Connor admits. Dylan cannot disagree with that, but if they want to move forward—and Dylan wants to move forward for sure—they both need to move pass this mess, especially if Connor is going to join Sidney Crosby’s crusade to right the NHL’s wrongs.

 

“It doesn't,” Dylan says, extricating his hand from Connor’s grip and putting it on Connor’s nape, “but we are going to be fine.”

 

“Are we?” Connor asks looking Dylan straight in the eyes. Right now, he looks like the young man he is, and not the captain of an NHL team upon whom all the hopes of an entire city rest.

 

“I want to,” Dylan reassures him and he brings their foreheads together.

 

“Jesus, Dyls,” Connor exhales, “I am so, so sorry,” he says again.

 

“Good,” Dylan smirks, “and you have to apologize to Brinksy too. He endured my moping for half the season. He is going to kill you.”

 

Connor lets out a watery laugh and nods, grabbing Dylan’s nape, their forehead still touching.

 

“I love you,” he says, and it is heartfelt and so welcomed Dylan wants to cry.

 

“I love you, too,” Dylan responds, because that has always been true, and Dylan might not be a romantic, but he has never been stingy with his love for Connor.

 

Connor stills and pulls back, fixing his wide green eyes into Dylan’s.

 

“No, you don't get it, Dylan,” he says. Then he takes a deep breath and says, once again. “I _love_ you.”

 

Dylan looks at him and wants to shake his head. Sometimes, he despairs for this kid who is so, so good at hockey and at leading by example, and, apparently, at not much else.

 

“It’s you who don't get it, Davo,” he explains slowly, because this is important, and clearly Connor didn't listen to Dylan the other hundreds of times Dylan said it. Dylan had not realized _this_ was the problem.

 

“I _love_ you, too.”

 

Connor’s eyes widen even more and his mouth forms a surprised “o”.

 

“You are straight.”

 

Dylan rolls his eyes, because he expects this level of stupidity from himself, not from Davo.

 

“Really, Davo? That’s what you got out of it?” he mocks him, and Connor pushes him hard enough Dylan almost falls off the bench.

 

“You never told me,” Connor accuses him, like it’s suddenly Dylan’s fault Connor’s an idiot.

 

“I have been telling you I love you on a regular basis since 2014,” Dylan states, and it’s true. It might not have been the romantic love that Dylan means now—that he had meant since not long after the draft, when everything was closing upon them and Dylan felt like he would suffocate under the pressure of it all—but it has been love nonetheless.

 

“You should have told me,” Connor says, and it’s so absurd, considering what has happened in the last months, that Dylan starts laughing hysterically.

 

“Stop it,” Connor shrieks when Dylan shows himself incapable of reining in his laughter and Connor’s indignation sends Dylan in a renewed fit of giggles.

 

“You are such an asshole,” Connor mutters.

 

“An asshole you love, apparently,” Dylan smirks.

 

“An asshole who loves me too,” Connor says wonderingly, like the whole thing seems impossible.

 

“God knows why,” Dylan responds, but Connor smiles blindingly and pulls Dylan into a crushing hug. It’s uncomfortable on the bench, so Dylan gets up and drags Connor with him before engulfing him into a more encompassing hug. He still has a couple of inches on him, but Davo has been filling out since he left the Otters, and he is wider than Dylan. It makes for a better hug.

 

Connor pulls back slightly and looks at Dylan’s mouth and then at Dylan, as if asking for permission.

 

“I am not a fucking virgin, Davo, and I know how to use Google,” Dylan says rolling his eyes. He might like girls, but he also loves Connor McDavid, so he looked things up because that is what one does—again, not the sharpest tool in the shed, but Dylan is not one to pass on sex with the love of his life just because the love of his life happens to be a guy.

 

Connor studies him a bit longer, and then finally goes for it.

 

Kissing a guy is not so different from kissing a girl—a mouth is a mouth, a tongue is a tongue. Dylan wasn't expecting to be particularly thrown off by the experience, since he is highly adaptable—coachable, all his coaches have said of him, and this is no different.

 

This is not just kissing a guy, however. It’s kissing Davo, whom Dylan have loved for years and whom he thought he had lost forever—to Edmonton, to Draisaitl, to adulthood. So there might not be fireworks and rainbows, but it settles something in Dylan’s soul, to be with Connor like this. To know that there is a new level of intimacy they can add to a relationship that has already been so close as to be almost symbiotic.

 

Connor kisses like he knows what he is going, and Dylan follows suit, but lets Connor set the pace, because, in this, Connor has more experience.

 

Connor’s hands sneaks below Dylan’s t-shirt and begins tracing the outline of Dylan’s back muscles.

 

Dylan is about to go for Connor’s pants when a discrete but audible cough forces the two of them apart.

 

Dylan turns quickly and he sees Marns waiving his right hand ridiculously with a big smile on his stupid face. Matts is right besides him, trying to look at anywhere but at Connor and Dylan.

 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dylan asks Marns, because he hadn’t told him where the usual spot was to have Marns interrupt his reunion with Davo.

 

Marns is undeterred, and he comes closer, bro-hugging Dylan and then Connor while making sure to stay clear of the boner they are both sporting. Connor hides his face in Dylan’s back, and Dylan doesn't know who is more embarrassed, Davo or Auston.

 

“Just making sure you guys haven’t killed each other,” Marns says sitting on the bench.

 

Matts comes along too, mouthing “I am sorry,” at Dylan, like Dylan isn’t familiar with the impossibility of stopping Hurricane Mitchell.

 

“It looks like they are just fine, Marns,” Matts says smiling at Dylan and Connor.

 

“Which is awesome,” Marns agrees after dragging Connor and Dylan on the bench with him. Dylan sends a look at Connor, who shakes his head and ruffles Mitch’s hair.

 

“Let go,” Marns shrieks, but he doesn't get up. His face is an open book and he is clearly delighted that Connor and Dylan figured their shit out, even if he clearly hadn't know there was _that much shit_ to figure out, since he is obviously surprised about the turn of the events.

 

“Now that you kissed and made up,” Marns continues, “can we go get some breakfast?”

 

Dylan looks at Matts horrified, “He just are three bowls of cereal like two hours ago.”

 

“Don’t look at me like it’s my fault, bro,” Matts says. “He was like this when I got him.”

 

“I am not a puppy,” Marns objects, but he gets up and once again drags Connor and Dylan with him.

 

“You had me fooled,” Dylan chirps him, but without really meaning it. Marns has been great, and Dylan owes him and Auston Matthews a lot. So in a moment of weakness he will deny until his dying day, he picks Marns up and hugs him hard.

 

“Thanks, Marns,” he whispers and when he lets him go, Mitch gives him one of his blinding smiles.

 

“Feed me, Stromer,” he says, because it’s too much emotion for everyone involved.

 

Connor’s phone chimes with a text notification and after a quick glance Connor says, “Leon wants a status update too.”

 

“And you were wise enough not to tell him where you were going,” Matts comments, openly laughing at Dylan.

 

“If we are going to get food, he should come with,” Dylan suggests.

 

Davo’s eyes go soft and he smiles at Dylan in thanks—like Connor needs Dylan’s permission to hang out with his friends. They are going to have to sit down and figure this relation shit out quickly.

 

“Denny’s okay with everybody?” Connor asks, and Dylan doesn't really care, but Marns and Matts nod enthusiastically.

 

“I drove here, so we can pick up Leon on the way,” Connor suggests and everyone agrees with the plan.

 

It’s almost nine o’clock on a sunny Saturday in July, so there are quite a few people in the park, running, walking dogs and generally enjoying the outsides, The four of them are not exactly inconspicuous, but between sunglasses, snapbacks and a fast pace, they manage to escape without getting stopped by any well-meaning fan.

 

Connor’s rental is parked close by—a generic black SUV, because Connor is still lame, even if he's the love of Dylan's life.

 

Connor unlocks the car and Dylan jumps in the front seat, relegating Matts and Marns in the backseat. They don't seem to care too much, each of them absorbed in their phone, although they occasionally show each other something on their screens.

 

Dylan looks at Connor, who looks back before turning the car on. They share an intimate smile—with two passengers they can’t do much more, Marns has already enough chirp material to last until Armageddon.

 

“I told Mikey you are coming to the tourney, Stromer,” Marns says from the backseat. “He is going to put you in goal.”

 

“The hell he is,” Dylan yells turning towards Marns, who is smirking.

 

“You fucker,” Dylan mutters, and looks at his phone, where the “Stromer’s Squad” chat has been very active in the last hour or so. Marns must have at least told people Connor and Dylan were talking.

 

“It’s fine, Dyls,” Connor smiles as he starts driving. “He put me into goal too. We can hang out and let them score to their heart’s content.”

 

“I am telling McLeod,” Marns says typing furiously.

 

“Tell him I didn't come all the way from Arizona to have McDavid and Strome play in the fucking crease,” Matts comments, and Dylan and Connor holler while Marns looks at him wide-eyed.

 

He resumes typing furiously, and from the bunch of texts that come through it is clear the McLeods are going to spend the time it’s going to take the five of them to get breakfast to rearrange the tourney’s teams to Auston Matthews’ satisfaction.

 

Dylan gives Matts a fistbumb, which is happily returned, and before he can lay his hand back in his lap, Connor grabs it and interlaces his fingers with Dylan’s.

 

“Owww!” Marns says from the back.

 

“Shut up, Mitchy,” Connor, Dylan and Matts say at the same time. Then they crack up laughing, while Marns pouts in a corner.

 

Dylan doesn't really know what is going to happen next. They need to decide what to tell their friends and their families— and especially Brinksy, who was there for it all. They also need to figure out how to navigate this new thing there is between them, regardless of what is going to happen to Dylan next season. Dylan also wants to be involved in whatever it is that Crosby is going to come up with to offset the homophobic messages the league is endorsing. Dylan might not be the captain of an NHL team, but he can do his part to make the league a legitimately better place to play for everyone.

 

He is not overly optimistic, because he has been in juniors for so long he knows how deeply ingrained certain behaviors are in young players. But he wants to try—for Connor, for himself and for anyone who might need it tomorrow. He learned, so others can too.

 

Dylan looks around at the people in the car and he thinks that, with friends like this, there is a chance things might change for the better after all.


End file.
